Tyrion woke naked on a goose-down feather bed so soft it felt as if a cloud had swallowed him. His tongue was furry and his throat was hoarse, but his cock was as hard as iron. He rolled from the bed, found a chamber pot, and filled it, with a groan of relief.

The room was dim, and sunlight peeked through the shutters' slats. Tyrion shook the last drops off and waddled over patterned Myrish carpets to the shutters and opened them. He gazed out the window and saw the familiar sight of the menagerie.

Tyrion had been staying in Braavos for a moon. During that time, his constant companions were the whores on Ferrego's Pleasure Barge, wine and books. The tomes were all tales of the Targaryens. From the doom of Valyria to their downfall of Robert's Rebellion. Although Ferrego hadn't gone into detail about his plans for him, Tyrion suspected it was related to Daenerys Targaryen, as she had three dragons, or so it was claimed.

There was breakfast of bread and the brown stuff, which Ricorno had called chocolate, was awaiting him on the table near the window. Tyrion climbed upon his usual seat and ate the delicious sweet spread. Ricorno told him the cocoa plant had been discovered on the Summer Isles, and when mixed with nuts, sugar and milk, it produced the delicious spread. The delicacy had not yet reached Westeros, and Tyrion doubted it ever would as only the select few could afford such a luxury and they wanted to keep it to themselves.

About halfway through his meal, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," Tyrion called out. He knew who the visitor was, for Ricorno called upon him every morning during breakfast to check on him.

Ricorno emerged in a bright green robe and a rare smile on his face. "Good morrow, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion, whose mouth was full of chocolate spread gave the man a nod and waved him over to join him for breakfast. This was their morning ritual, although Ricorno ate little, although he helped himself to tea.

Once Tyrion finished swallowing his bite, he smiled at Ricorno. "And who will be aboard the Pleasure Barge with me today?"

Ricorno shook his head as he placed a lump of sugar into his tea. "I'm afraid your time on the barge must end. News from Pentos and other quarters of Braavos means we must leave Braavos sooner than planned."

"We?"

"Ah yes. I will escort you to Pentos. Like you, Braavos is no longer a safe place for me."

"And why is that?"

"I will explain more during our trip. But for now, word has reached us of Mace Tyrell paying a visit to the Iron Bank. His ship will arrive on the morrow, should the winds be favourable. Who knows how long he plans to stay in Braavos. Hence, we should make haste and leave before he arrives."

"Speaking of interested parties," Tyrion said, moving to his trunk, "I couldn't help but notice that not all of those Targaryen histories focused on our dear Dragon Queen across the Narrow Sea." He glanced sideways at Ricorno, watching for any reaction. "Some spoke extensively about other branches of the family tree."

Ricorno's face remained carefully neutral. "History is like a game of cyvasse, my lord. Sometimes the most important pieces are not the ones in plain sight."

"Indeed." Tyrion began sorting through his belongings. "Though I must say, I found the chapters about the Blackfyre Rebellions particularly illuminating. Especially the fate of certain... lost lines."

"The Sealord's library is quite extensive," Ricorno replied smoothly. "Though I wouldn't burden your mind with such ancient history. Our immediate concern is reaching Pentos alive."

"Speaking of which, will we be saying our farewells to my gracious host? I have not seen him for some time."

"We will say our farewells to the Sealord shortly," Ricorno replied with a hint of melancholy in his voice.

Tyrion pulled a worn leather bag from beneath his bed. It still smelled of the sea, a reminder of his harrowing journey across the Narrow Sea. "And once we reach Pentos? What then?"

"Then, my lord, you will meet someone who might change the game entirely." Ricorno moved to help Tyrion with his packing. "Someone who, like yourself, understands what it means to be displaced from their rightful position."

"Rightful position," Tyrion echoed, thinking of the Casterly Rock, of his father's betrayal, of Cersei's hatred. "A dangerous phrase, that. Many men have died claiming what was 'rightfully' theirs."

"And many more will die before this dance is done," Ricorno agreed. "But first, we must focus on our journey. The coastal road is safer than the sea, but not without its own perils. We'll need to avoid both sellswords and servants of the Iron Throne."

Tyrion closed his bag with a decisive snap. "Well then, let us hope this mysterious friend in Pentos is worth the trouble. Though I must admit, I've developed a certain wariness of those who claim to be more than they appear."

Ricorno's eyes glittered. "In this case, my lord, you may find that what appears to be more is precisely what it claims to be."

"How delightfully cryptic," Tyrion sighed. "I don't suppose there's any more of that chocolate spread for the journey?"

"Already packed," Ricorno assured him. "Along with enough wine to keep you reasonably content until we reach the manse in Pentos."

"Reasonable contentment," Tyrion mused. "I suppose that's more than most dwarfs on the run can hope for these days. When do we leave?"

"As soon as the sun touches the Titan's shoulders. Best be ready, my lord. The game you're about to enter makes the one you played in King's Landing look like a child's puzzle."

Tyrion thought of the boy king he'd been accused of killing, of his sister's machinations, which had cost him everything. "Good," he lied. "I was getting bored."

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

The final meeting with Ferrego was scheduled for later in the morning. Ricorno arrived early, his teal overcoat pressed and immaculate.

"It is time for your meeting with the Sealord."

They entered the Sealord's solar and Tyrion noticed the change in Ferrego. The man looked more diminished, his skin almost translucent. Yet something burned in his eyes, a fierce intelligence that hadn't been dimmed by illness.

Tyrion climbed up on the chair opposite the Sealord, as he had on many occasions, and waited for Ferrego to speak.

"Lord Tyrion. Your journey to Pentos is more than a simple relocation. You understand this, I presume?"

"I've learned that nothing is ever simple, especially when powerful men are involved. Oh and Mace Tyrell."

A ghost of a smile crossed Ferrego's thin lips. "Why do you think I chose you? The Iron Bank grows... restless. The Seven Kingdoms' debts are mounting, and the current leadership lacks the nuance required for delicate negotiations."

"And you believe I possess such nuance?" Tyrion took a measured sip of the Dornish red.

"I know you do. Your time as Master of Coin was not without merit, despite the... complications of your family's politics."

"Why, thank you for your keen observation."

"Pentos will be different," Ferrego continued. "The Magisters there are more... receptive to alternative approaches to debt resolution. Although, it all depends on who is repaying the debt."

"Who am I to be Master of Coin for? One of the Magisters?"

A servant knocked on the door rushed to Ricorno and whispered something in his ear before leaving.

"The wheelhouse is prepared," Ricorno said.

"You will find out when you get there. It is now time for you to leave." With some difficulty, Ferrego stood from behind his desk and offered Tyrion his hand, which he shook. "Valar morghulis."

Tyrion gave him a sad smile and climbed down from his chair. "I wish you good fortune, my lord."

Ferrego's gaze locked with Ricorno's. An entire conversation seemed to pass between them. Tyrion realized he was witnessing a goodbye.

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

The sun was kissing the Titan's massive shoulders when they departed, the bronze giant casting long shadows across the purple waters of the harbour. The journey would not be comfortable. Ricorno had been clear about that from the beginning. A wheelhouse meant for discretion, not luxury. Tyrion would be hidden, and protected, but at the cost of comfort.

"Wine," Tyrion said to Ricorno as they prepared to depart. "Lots of wine. The journey will be unbearable otherwise."

Ricorno's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but an acknowledgement. "I've already prepared several casks. Dornish red, as you prefer."

The wheelhouse was as described. Cramped. Stuffy. The wooden walls seemed to absorb heat, transforming the interior into a virtual oven. Tyrion's fine clothes, the few he'd brought from Braavos, would be wrinkled and sweaty within hours.

"We'll make overnight stops," Ricorno explained, spreading a map across the small fold-out table. "The route avoids major cities, minimizes the risk of recognition."

Tyrion studied the map. Familiar territories, yet strange. The landscape of Essos was different from Westeros, more fluid, and less rigidly defined. Merchant routes, trade paths, and hidden passages are known only to those who travel often.

"And if someone recognizes me?" Tyrion asked.

"They won't," Ricorno said with absolute certainty. "Your appearance has changed. The beard, the weight loss. You look... different."

"I am still a dwarf."

"Who is believed to be dead? You can stay in the wheelhouse if you choose. I'll stay in one of the more comfortable beds."

"Our host in Pentos," Tyrion ventured as the wheelhouse approached the mainland bridge, "I don't suppose he's fond of cheese? I've heard the cheesemongers of Pentos are wealthier than most."

A slight smile played on Ricorno's lips. "The man we're meeting is fond of many things, my lord. Cheese among them, though his appetites are... varied."

"Ah," Tyrion said. "One of those. I've found men with varied appetites often have varied motives as well."

They crossed the bridge in silence, their horses' hooves clopping against the ancient stone. The mainland stretched before them, dark and promising. Tyrion had studied maps of the coastal road during his time in Braavos, it would take them through several small fishing villages and a barren stretch of coastline before reaching Pentos. A journey of three weeks, Tyrion guessed. It was going to be akin to travelling the Seven Hells.

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

The first day of travel was miserable. Heat pressed against the wheelhouse's wooden walls like a physical force. Sweat collected in uncomfortable places, and the wine, while plentiful, provided only momentary relief.

Tyrion was bored. He wondered what was happening to his family. Tommen was now King, of that he could be certain. Myrcella would probably be in Dorne, he prayed she was safe. No matter what he felt about Cersei, he genuinely loved his niece and nephew.

"You seem lost in thought."

"Family. Always a complicated matter."

Ricorno said nothing, but there was understanding in his silence. Professional distance, yet something more. Tyrion wondered about the man's history. Nobody arrived at their current position without a story, and Tyrion loved stories.

As night fell properly, Ricorno led them off the main road into a small copse of trees. "We'll rest here for a few hours," he said, dismounting. "Best to avoid the inns close to Braavos."

Tyrion climbed down from the wheelhouse, his back already protesting from the bouncing of the wooden wheels against the rocky terrain.

"Worried about our friends from the Reach?"

"Among others." Ricorno began unpacking their provisions. "The Sealord's spies report that your sister has men searching every port from Ibben to Asshai."

"I thought you said…" Tyrion started.

Ricorno shrugged and passed Tyrion a waterskin. "We will be fine when we are further from Braavos. Too many people close by would recognise your face, and the whores can only be bought while Ferrego is alive to pay for them. Just because your body has not been found, doesn't mean your sister doesn't want proof of your death."

"My dear sweet sister," Tyrion mused, accepting a water skin. "Always so thorough in her affections. Though I doubt she's extended her reach quite that far east."

"Perhaps not," Ricorno agreed, "but her gold has. Should you be found alive, the price on your head would buy a small fleet."

They ate a cold supper of hard cheese and harder bread, washed down with wine. As they sat in the growing darkness, owls calling in the distance, he considered his companion.

"Tell me, Ricorno, how does a man such as yourself end up in the service of the Sealord of Braavos?"

"The same way a dwarf of Casterly Rock ends up fleeing across the Narrow Sea," Ricorno replied. "By making powerful friends and more powerful enemies."

"And which category does our host in Pentos fall into?"

Ricorno's face was shadowed in the dying light. "That, my lord, will depend entirely on you."

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

After another uncomfortable day in the wheelhouse, evening approached. This time they were far enough from Braavos to stay in an inn. The accommodations were modest but clean. Tyrion stretched, his body aching from the confined journey.

"We'll rest here tonight. Fresh horses in the morning."

The inn was typical of travel routes. A simple wooden structure, with few guests, and a sense of transient life moving through. Tyrion appreciated the anonymity. No one looked twice at a slightly pudgy traveller accompanied by a well-dressed companion.

Dinner was simple but hearty. A thick spicy stew, crusty bread, more wine. Tyrion noticed how Ricorno ate, always alert, scanning the room without seeming to scan it. Years of service to Ferrego had honed his instincts.

"You're watching me watch the room."

"A skill we both seem to share."

The conversation was interrupted by a group of merchants entering the inn. Loud, boisterous, speaking a dialect that mixed Valyrian with Essosi trade speak. They paid Tyrion and Ricorno no mind, which was how they preferred it.

As night fell, Tyrion reflected on Ferrego's final instructions. The Sealord had been clear - connections with the Iron Bank needed careful management. Tyrion's reputation for clever financial manoeuvring preceded him, even in exile.

"We'll need to be cautious in Pentos."

"The magisters are... particular," Ricorno responded. "They respect wealth, but they fear unpredictability."

"Whom am I to be Master of Coin for?" he asked for what felt like the thousandth time. "If it's not the cheesemonger, then who?"

Ricorno gave him a look of exasperation. "You will know when the time is right. Walls have ears."

Tyrion had had enough. He paid for a bath to be taken to his room and spent the rest of the night soaking his bones and drinking the inn's substandard wine.

The next morning brought another day of heat and confinement. The wheelhouse rolled across dusty Essosi roads, each bump and jolt a reminder of the journey's discomfort. Tyrion's mind wandered. To Braavos, to Ferrego, to the subtle moment he'd witnessed between the Sealord and Ricorno. A lifetime of court intrigue had taught him that such connections were rarely simple. Love, loyalty, survival - they often intertwined in ways most people never understood.

"You're thinking about him," Ricorno said.

"Ferrego?" Tyrion asked.

"The moment you saw something. Between us."

Direct. Unexpected. Tyrion appreciated that.

"I saw nothing," Tyrion lied.

Ricorno's laugh was soft. "Of course you didn't. If you must know, Ferrego and I are… were lovers."

"It is none of my business. Although it makes me wonder how you could leave him like that at his greatest hour of need."

"There are those who want Ferrego dead. Once he passes, they will want me gone, too. I was to leave even if you hadn't arrived."

The landscape outside shifted. Rolling hills gave way to more rugged terrain. Essos was a continent of constant transformation, much like the political landscapes Tyrion knew so well.

"Ah, so you are running from something," Tyrion observed. It wasn't a question.

"Aren't we all?" Ricorno countered.

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

They rode for ten more days, keeping to the coastal road but staying within the tree line when possible. Tyrion's back protested every time he climbed down from the wheelhouse. They passed through fishing villages where the locals spoke a bastardized mix of Valyrian and the Common Tongue, trading coins for fresh bread and information about the road ahead.

On the eleventh day, as the towers of Pentos appeared on the horizon, Ricorno finally spoke more plainly. "The man we're meeting is called Illyrio Mopatis. He's a magister of Pentos, and his influence extends far beyond the city walls."

"A magister?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow in sarcasm. "How fascinating that a magister of Pentos would take an interest in a fugitive dwarf from Westeros."

This wasn't new information. Ferrego had already told him he would journey to the manse of Illyrio Mopatis. However, Tyrion doubted counting the gold of a Magister was his future. No, there was more to this the met the eye.

"He takes interest in many things that might seem... unexpected." Ricorno adjusted his reins. "His manse is the largest in the city. You'll be comfortable there while arrangements are made."

"Arrangements for what?"

"For introductions that need to be made with care, my lord."

The sun was setting behind them as they approached the city gates, painting the walls of Pentos in shades of amber and gold. Tyrion could smell the familiar scent of the sea mixing with exotic spices and oils that wafted from within the city.

"I do hope this Illyrio Mopatis is as interesting as you've made him sound," Tyrion said as they passed beneath the gates. "I'd hate to have come all this way just to meet another fat merchant who thinks he can play at politics."

Ricorno's laugh was genuine this time. "Oh, you needn't worry about that, my lord. I promise you, what awaits in Illyrio's manse will exceed even your considerable expectations."